Untitled
by Lily Maxwell The Dark Angel
Summary: Whatever had he done, mixing his feelings for the art with his feelings for a man? The story of an untitled painting. // AU, Riku/Sora.


**Untitled**

By Lily M.

He was perfect.

From his naturally narrow eyes, to his white teeth, and his shoulders and arms – so strong – and how his legs moved in such graceful movements, making the simple act of walk seem like a movie, in slow motion, torturing the audience as they awaited the climax.

His lips would curve into a sensual smirk, and his bangs shadowed his face only enough to make his gaze even more captivating. He would blink slowly, sometimes, and the action made him moist his lips unconsciously, every time. The other, however, was well aware.

So why, in the name of all that was holy in the world, couldn't he portray all those feelings into the canvas? How could his muse betray him so, make him suffer so, drive him insane so?

"You seem angry with the brush," Adonis spoke, amusement evident in his velvety voice. "Should I be worried?"

He paused his brush for a second, and unbeknownst to him, his cheek was charmingly marked with lavender. The other laughed a beautiful laugh that filled the room otherwise filled with the sounds of the busy city. A slow blink of the eyes, and the fact that he was barely clothed made the artist hold his brush a little tighter.

His chest felt on fire.

"No," he answered in a quiet voice. "I'm just…" He bit his lip lightly, and the beautiful muse tilted his head to the side, with his right hand as a support. He seemed ready to stand up, but the artist quickly shouted a "No!" The muse frowned, and even such negative expression made his eyes shine brighter.

"What, I'm not allowed to see the work in progress?" He lifted an eyebrow.

"No," was the simple answer. The frown was still there, though, and he wished it were gone. "I'm… I'd prefer if you saw it only when it was completed." He completed a bit hesitantly, and the other sighed, silver hair obscuring his face for a moment. He got up and walked towards the artist, but when he was too close, he closed his eyes. A couple more steps and he was close enough to whisper in his ear.

"Let us hope that it's not anytime soon."

His hands, so big, brushed against his stomach for a brief moment before he was out. His figure was pale, and the sheet he had around himself trailed behind in mesmerizing shapes. He was like the personification of the breeze.

He couldn't paint the breeze.

"Aren't you cold?"

He looked up. It was definitely cold on that day. All the windows had to be closed, or else he was sure his model would get sick. He could picture the flush of fever against his cheeks, and for a moment, he traced his fingers against the canvas.

He wasn't, really. And it sounded _crazy_.

"Please…" His voice was always so quiet when he spoke, blue eyes looking directly into those eyes, whose color he could simply not put into words. A mix of greens and blues and what could only be described as the sea. How could he possibly paint that? "Don't talk."

From that day on, there were no more teasing smirks or touches.

And suddenly, he felt cold.

He was still there, unmovable from the couch, looking just like the first day he went to his atelier. But it was like his eyes had gone as silent as his mouth. And he didn't make a sound as he breathed, looking so much like a faraway mirage.

His strokes were slow, confused, misguided. It was wrong. So wrong. At one point, he even considered throwing the canvas away, towards the wall, or ripping it to shreds. Not in front of _him_, of course. Such eccentric behavior would drive him away forever. And what would be of his masterpiece then? What would be of him?

"I remember you."

Odd. Random. Sudden.

He placed the brush down and looked as the other approached him, slowly. He quickly got up and placed himself between the model and the piece. It wasn't like he could have seen it anyway, but he felt really nervous then. He could hear his heart pounding against his ears.

"I remembered you when you approached me the other day." He stood there, right before him. He could almost feel the warmth eradiating from him. "I don't know if you remember me. I was a model for one of your classes at college." Why was his hand on his cheek? Why was he touching him? Why was he so close, all of a sudden? "And I remember you, eyes wide with interesting, flushed at the sight of a living model, with enthusiastic strokes."

He couldn't say anything. All this time, it had always been about the other, so why was it now about him?

"Where has your smile gone?"

He couldn't answer.

"I came here because it was _you_ who invited me_. So_ _where have you gone_?"

His grip was strong like he had imagined as he held his neck and waist, pulling him close to his chest, to his lips. But his kiss wasn't as gentle as the breeze. No, no. It was fierce, and it was determined, and it was demanding. It begged him to answer, it made him open his mouth and feel the other trace his teeth, and rob him of his breath entirely.

He allowed his hands to touch that skin, to find out what kind of texture it would have. And it felt like silk, just like he had imagined. From the shape of his waist, and his chest, his chin, to the strands of his hair against his face. He could feel his form in its entirety.

But when he kissed his throat, holding him down against soft sheets, he was no longer a mere muse. He let his name roll out of his tongue, the sound coming out weak, breathless. "Riku…" And Riku, pleased with the sound of his name, continued, and together, they followed a rhythm until the sun was no more.

It was over then, the artist thought. Had the passion been consumed along with the touches? Whatever had he done, mixing his feelings for the art with his feelings for a man? The painting was doomed from the day he pondered starting it. From the day Riku had said that yes, he agreed to pose for him.

But when Riku kissed his temple, his hair bright even in the dim light, legs and fingers interlaced with his own, he didn't feel doomed. He let himself breath in and out, taking in the other's scent, taking in everything that was him. And for the first time in a long time, he could feel himself lulled into calm sleep.

The next morning, he expected to feel cold again. He expected it to be over. He expected himself to feel… empty.

But when Riku stretched in the weak light of morning, his hair looking less straight and composed, his eyes looking less strong and mischievous, smiling to him a lazy, humored smile, he felt himself warm again. Beautiful imperfection.

"Are you ever going to finish it?" Riku asked a few days later as the two of them entered the atelier and he spotted the covered canvas. His eyes had a weird tint to them, maybe curious, maybe upset. "Sora?" He called gently, as if to remind the artist that it wasn't a demand, just a simple question.

Sora gave him a smile of his own. It made him smile back instantly.

"I don't know," he answered truthfully. "Will you let me keep trying? It's been a while…"

"I don't know," the other echoed, chuckling. "Maybe you should focus on other paintings." Sora nodded in agreement as he was brought into an embrace, and Riku kissed his forehead.

Sora may never finish the painting, after all. But he never threw the canvas away. And the model, he would still stay with him, maybe hoping that one day he would get to see it finished, maybe satisfied he, at the very least, had the artist to look only at him.

* * *

_I haven't really proof-read it yet. I am so sorry if you see any grotesque mistakes. Will be edited soon._

_I wrote this last month, but decided to wait until Valentine's Day to post it. Not my best work, but not terribly bad either. I liked toying with the idea in my mind, but when I wrote it down, they both seemed awfully out of character... But I decided to post it anyway. Can't always get it right, right?_

_I hope you enjoyed it, in any case._

_Also, Untitled is the title. Just so you know._

_Happy Valentine's Day/S.A.D. :)_


End file.
